


The Words That Come After

by birdy (Razzika)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cyborg: 76 AU, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oneshot, other warnings inside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 08:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17556509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzika/pseuds/birdy
Summary: It seemed like a good idea at the time is something that Jesse would say, and Gabriel would rather chew his own leg off than admit that this is the very thought tolling through his head.-An AU inspired by Jack's Cyborg: 76 skin.





	The Words That Come After

**Author's Note:**

> An AU inspired by Jack’s Cyborg: 76 skin. 
> 
> I don’t pay too much attention to lore and stuff, but this this story roughly takes place towards the end of the omnic crisis. 
> 
> This is also a standalone fic. I don’t know if I’ll continue it yet. This has been sitting on my computer for months and I like how it reads. Hopefully you do too!
> 
> Warnings: Violence, swearing, gore, non-consensual body modification, kidnapping, and non-consensual drug use.

It seemed like a good idea at the time is something that Jesse would say, and Gabriel would rather chew his own leg off than admit that this is the very thought tolling through his head.

No matter how long he waits, the darkness remains total and silent – naught but the shallow rasp of his own breath echoes once the earth and stone settles in the post-explosion stillness.

He wonders how loudly Ana will yell at him when he gets out of this mess.

A lot, probably.

Dust rains from his clothing as Gabriel cautiously stands. A knot balls up at the base of his throat until his wandering hands find one of his shotguns lying on the ground. He flicks the flashlight attachment on, breathing easier once the beam illuminates the path ahead. The other gun pokes out from under a pile of rubble. He digs it out and holsters it.

The other he aims forward so that it lights the space ahead.

Despite the less than desirable outcome he has found himself in, trapped beneath the ruins of Eichenwalde, his idea of distracting the rogue omnics had worked. Technically.

The explosion that had trapped him down here should have wiped the bulk of the force his team was battling. At the very least, it would have given Jesse and the others time to retreat and regroup.

As his eyes follow the narrow cone of light, Gabriel discovers old stone-work and a long, crumbling hallway to the right. It must be an old tunnel network. Reinhardt has spoken of the extensive system that veins under the ancient castle, of how hundreds of civilians had used them to escape when the bastion army had first surrounded the city.

Gabriel picks a shard of metal from his cheek, flicks it away, and starts walking.

_Seemed like a good idea_ , he thinks as his footsteps echo in the dark, _right_.

.

.

.

Following the tunnel leads Gabriel on a long, winding adventure in the dark. His jaw clenches tighter and tighter with every dead-end and cave-in he finds. He is trapped in the dark, and it seems endless. The air is stale and cold, mildew coating the back of his throat. Minutes drag on until his watch says that he’s been trapped for a full half-hour.

Gabriel turns a corner, drags in a breath, and he tastes fresher air.

He is too well-trained to let his gait stutter. A twist of the hips, a pivot of his heel, and Gabriel is smoothly adjusting his path.

At the end of the hallway is a door.

_Ah,_ he thinks, _shit._

Unlike the hallway at Gabriel’s back, the door is made of metal. The lack of rust and the familiar, modern design make it painfully obvious that the door is only a few years old.

“Nowhere to go but up,” he mutters, because if there was anyone on the other side of the door they would have shot him by now.

.

.

.

The door is not locked. It swings open on soundless hinges, spilling harsh light and a wall of clean air into the gloom. His eyes burn from the brightness of the space ahead. Gabriel does not let his eyes shut as they water and adjust to the change, as his skin crawls with awareness.

Fluorescents hum. Nothing else disturbs the electric quiet. Grim, he stalks forward, boots thumping softly against the floor. Recycled air slithers into his lungs. It smells like a laboratory, like Angela’s medical wing. Chemicals, antiseptics, and cold metal.

Tingles crawl along his spine.

His own memories of SEP, of fire crawling through his veins and needles driving into his skin, clamour in the back of his skull like a jar of nails being rattled. Gabriel pushes them away even as he journeys further in.

There is something wrong about this place.

.

.

.

Gabriel finds evidence of a hasty evacuation.

Papers are scattered, laboratory equipment is still cycling, and cups of coffee are lukewarm beside half-eaten lunches. It doesn’t take long for Gabriel to put two and two together, not once he finds the security room.

This was the target, he realises, staring at the monitors showing security footage of Eichenwalde. Onmic corpses are still smoking in the cameras view, and he can just make out one of the Overwatch Orca’s setting down in the bottom corner of a screen. His trigger finger taps a silent beat against the shotguns body.

Overwatch will be looking for him.

A scream echoes down the hall.

Gabriel runs towards it.

.

.

.

Behind a heavy door, which Gabriel unlocks with a blast of his shotgun, he finds a man.

No. Not a man. A mixture of man and machine.

The cyborg is held in place with a manacle around his wrist, ribbons of cables snaking between a chamber and ports along his shoulders and spine. As Gabriel is taking the scene in the whine of electricity builds-

_Shit_ , Gabriel thinks. The cyborg screams behind the oxygen-mask strapped to his face as electricity burns over him in shining arcs. Desperation marks his movements as he pulls at the shackle on his left wrist, metal squealing from the strain, and Gabriel fires his gun before he can second guess himself.

Tension gone, the cyborg falls with a crash, severed end of the shackle clattering alongside him. One of the cables, the one at the base of his neck, jerks free, and the electrocution ceases. He shudders, grappling with the mask until he rips it free. A very human mouth is revealed, teeth bared and bloody as he sucks in great, heaving gulps of air.

Gabriel does not lower his shotgun, but he is highly aware of three identical chambers in the room. These ones lay silent, the cyborgs within them contorted with pain even in death.

It is never easy being the sole survivor.

“Thank you,” says the cyborg, voice a low, harsh rasp that mauls every word.

“Don’t mention it.” Gabriel watches as he climbs to his feet, steam hissing from vents along his shoulders. The gun remains trained upon his centre mass. “Got a name?”

A flash of teeth. Contempt and wrath twisting into a vicious snarl. If his eyes were not hidden by the visor, masked with a vivid stripe of rusty, orange light, Gabriel is sure that they would be bright with rage.

“Once,” he growls, shifting his mass of metal from one foot to the other and turning his attention to the other chambers. He staggers towards the closest, resting a hand against the glass, and growls a low noise. “They deserved better.”

Bitterness lines Gabriel’s tongue. Even in death, it is easy to see that these people died painfully; spines curled and fingers broken from clawing at their prisons. “Who are they?” After a fraught pause, he adds, “What is this place?”

It seems to take a minute for the questions to register. Slowly, the cyborg turns, staring at Gabriel. There is little Gabriel can see of his expression asides scared lips. “The Facility. 61, 12, 84, 76,” he says, bleak, and lifts his hand from the glass and places it over his own chest, like he wants to pry the pectoral plate away.

Gabriel blinks, automatically filing those facts away. They seem meaningless, but perhaps it is a code for a security system. Once his forensics team start digging around it may be useful.

It could also be gibberish.

“They purged this place, didn’t they?”

The cyborg nods. Shattered glass crunches under his feet as he moves, twists to pry at the cables still connected to his spine. Gabriel grimaces at the sight. The hiss and pop of the tethers detaching echoes in the room.

He sighs when he is free. “We need to leave.”

“Why?”

“Purge isn’t done.” Metal clicks and shifts. The cyborg rolls his shoulders, ignoring the shotgun Gabriel still has trained on him, and starts for the door. “Two minutes.”

Oh. Crap.

.

.

They only just make it outside before the final purge begins. A wave of heat blasts against Gabriel’s back, fire licking at his heels as he sprints out of a gaping doorway and into the forest. The cyborg is right beside him. They stop a safe distance from the hidden entrance, turning to watch it burn.

 Whatever clues might have been in there will be nothing but ash by now. Gabriel breathes through his nose, free hand curling into a fist.

“I’m sorry.”

Gabriel stiffens. The cyborg moves with a sudden, liquid speed, and Gabriel barely has a chance to move before an elbow is driven into his temple.

.

.

.

“Sleeping on the job, Gabriel?”

Gabriel groans, squinting at the blur hovering over him. He knows that shape, that voice, even half-aware, and relaxes.

His temple throbs.

“How did you find me?” He takes Ana’s offered hand, and she pulls him up with ease despite his bulk.

“Athena picked up on tremors and temperature spikes. She located you soon after. Your radio?”

“Destroyed in the explosion.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Gabriel collects himself. A full squad of agents walk a perimeter around him, another two guarding the burnt-out entrance of the Facility. Smoke still rises from the scorched metal, but the flames have dissipated in however long Gabriel was knocked out for.

“Who did this?”

A gesture to his temple.

“A prisoner, I think. Escaped with me after the others were…purged.” His gut rolls with distaste. He hates these sorts of cases, if only because he remembers watching other SEP candidates drop like flies and emotionless doctors shoving more poison into the survivor’s veins. “Get Mercy and forensics over here now. We need to recover what we can.”

Ana flicks her steady gaze between him and the gaping, hollow entrance. “Yes, sir.”

Angela finds him shortly after Ana starts barking orders. She ignores his protesting glare and waits out his natural disinclination towards being examined. After the standard five minute standoff she quirks a brow.

With a sigh, he gives in and sits on a nearby rock. Angela is gracious in victory. After a brief examination, she cleans the clotted blood from his temple and soothes the wound with a pulse from her staff.

“Any other injuries, Strike Commander?”

“No.” He stands, and hesitates. “It’s not pretty in there, Mercy.”

She is too young for this horror.

Angela lifts her chin. The bravery is real, but so too is the fear in the way she holds her staff. “I still have a job to do, sir.”

“Mm.” Athena chimes the all-clear in his new earpiece. “Follow me then.”

.

.

.

The final purge must have been pre-empted by draining the liquid from the other chambers; the bodies of the other cyborgs have been molested by fire. It is a grotesque sight. The stench, however many times it has flooded Gabriel’s senses, never becomes easier to bear. Burnt flesh is repugnant.

Disquiet pinches the corners of her eyes as Ana turns her gaze upon the room, upon the flesh and metal corpses on display. Angela is studying one, spine stiff under the Valkyrie suit, and he knows how such a sight must be affecting her.

The cyborg could have killed Gabriel. He didn’t, and Gabriel wonders why.

“Sir,” Angela says as he comes to her side, “this is…this is…”

“I know.” He grips her shoulder, a brief moment of comfort, and feels the fury under his fingers. His warning was not enough. “I need you to tell me what this is.”

Angela’s resolve is as great as her compassion. She lets a slow breath out, and moves to examine the only empty chamber. For now, she leaves the bodies untouched.

He does not say thank you. Gratitude for this feels tainted, poisoned by how dark of a story lies within these walls. He leaves the room and the twisted corpses – those which he guesses were once healthy, whole people. Ana follows him. The stench of hot metal and burnt flesh does not dissipate. It lingers, clinging to his clothes.

“This is disturbing, Gabriel.” She frowns, tilting her head in such a way that the expression is hidden from the Overwatch agents stationed further down the hall. “You suppose that this is what the omnics were after?”

“I do.”

“Wonderful.” She rustles a sigh. “And don’t think that I have forgotten that stunt you pulled earlier.”

Beneath her anger is concern, and it warms him. “Need I remind you that I am your commanding officer?”

She snorts. Only because he knows her so well, trusts her implicitly, does Gabriel not bother with a reprimand to maintain his authority. Ana Amari is his second, and she follows his orders and calls him out when it’s needed. She grounds him like the moon moves the tide. No other agents are close enough to witness her masked anger, and she is careful to never challenge his authority where they can witness.

“Later,” Gabriel concedes, because he knows her and knows how many friends they have lost.

Ana eyeballs him, and nods. “Very well. So, who was this other…subject, and why did they do that?” She gestures to his temple again.

“Fear, maybe.” He had kept pace with Gabriel all too easily, pushing faster and faster as the countdown continued - but he only ran as fast as Gabriel could go. “The others were dead before the final purge, and the personnel were gone by the time I found him.”

The numbers rattle in Gabriel’s head. For now, he keeps them to himself. If anyone finds a locked room or whatever, they may be the key.

“Sir,” Angela calls, and the tightness in her voice has him turning before she can say anything else. Ana follows.

Angela’s hands are buried in the torn-open chamber, staff propped against the wall, and her wings glow too-bright in the gloom. Gabriel squints against light. “Find something?”

“Yes.” Cables spill from her hands as she rises. She pinches the end of one, inspecting the end. “These are similar to the technology developed to stabilise extensive cybernetic implants, close to what I used to help Genji.”

“But?”

Eyes narrowing, Angela twists the head of the cable so that the clamps catch the light. They look like tiny, metal teeth. “These are designed to be locked in place, and given the complexity of this machine,” she cannot veil her disgust, not from him, as she looks back at the chamber, “I believe that they were used to prevent muscle atrophy and render the cybernetics inert as needed.”

“Security measures,” Gabriel concludes, mind whirling at the possibilities. “Any signatures in the tech you recognise?”

“Not yet.” Delicately, Angela places the cable down. “If there is one, I will find it, sir.”

.

.

.

Overwatch salvages what they can from The Facility, places monitoring equipment around – despite Gabriel’s doubts anyone will returning, and head back to Gibraltar.

Ana chews him out for the whole ‘leading the bastion squad away from our men and blowing them – and yourself – up’ debacle before letting him retreat to his personal quarters for the night. He washes the dirt and ash from his skin, rinses the taste of burnt metal from between his teeth. Hunger does not beckon, but Gabriel knows he needs to eat and chokes down two ration bars before collapsing in bed.

It’s been a long day.

He knows the nightmares will find him tonight. In a bed emptier than it should be, they always do.

.

.

.

Every inch of The Facility has been scoured. Winston, barely able to fit his bulk down the halls, had thrown around every piece of tech he could, seeking hidden spaces full of secrets. The computers are destroyed, all of the papers Gabriel had done little more than glance over before the cyborgs screaming had drawn him away were incinerated.

All their hopes for learning anything of value about the foul place rest upon the corpses in Angela’s morgue.

Gabriel tries not to push for the full report. She has never failed him where it matters, and he knows that the report will be ready as soon as it is able to be.

Only, when it is, the report reveals too much. It reveals a web of corruption and thievery that spans the globe. It shows that groups Gabriel thought Overwatch had dealt with still existed. Angela’s knowledge is vast, as are her connections to top minds around the world – she knows whose work, stolen or not, was bolted into unwilling hosts.

The two John Doe’s and one Jane Doe lying in Angela’s lab are enhanced, cybernetically-augmented humans. On the surface, Gabriel knew this. The details, though, are what make him sick.

“The cybernetics go down to the bone. Sometimes, replacing the bone altogether,” Angela states, fingers threaded tightly together. Her knuckles are pale. He counts the thin scars on her hands. “The extent of the replacements is unique to each individual. Scarring indicates that it was likely a mortal injury that necessitated the cybernetics,” a small grimace, “for the most part.”

Gabriel drums his fingers on the desk surface. “Explain.”

Knuckles, somehow, turn paler. “Some were implanted for the purpose of enhancing physical capabilities. There was no trauma to the cardiovascular system on two of the bodies, yet their throats and lungs were retrofitted with filtering hardware suitable for removing toxins and smoke from the air – possibly even enabling John, John, and Jane Doe to breathe underwater for a limited time.”

His fingers still. “They were making enhanced soldiers.”

“Trying too.” Another grimace, and a new pallor to her face. Angela swallows. “The bulk of the augmentations are at least a four years old, and there were modified immunosuppressant’s in the tissue; and evidence that some of the augmentations were being rejected.”

His gut rolls. “Is there any way for you to tell if they were consensual to these?”

Angela is an infinitely gentle creature. Sitting here, in his office, her spine is tall with anger that burns deep inside. He has witnessed her defend her patients in hot-zones until her pistol overheated, only to resort to swinging her staff like a poleaxe. Their Valkyrie may be gentle, yes, but she is righteous in defence of those under the shelter of her wings. “Calluses on the bone and scarring indicate that they were restrained for an extensive amount of that time, sir.”

It takes Gabriel a moment to remind himself to breathe. Jesus Christ. Four years, possibly longer, where this place broke people apart and built them into something else. Overwatch didn’t notice. Gabriel didn’t notice. Fuck.

How many more had the Facility dug their claws into? How many died before only four remained?

“I know that these sorts of cases are difficult, sir,” Angela hedges, uncertain but resolute.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t help the headache already building between his eyes, but it gives him a moment to think. “You know that because of information you shouldn’t have in the first place,” he reminds her.

A snort. “I am your doctor. I am the doctor for all of the others who survived that barbaric-“ She stops, pulls a gust of air into her chest and lets it out. “There are a number of worrying similarities between this,” a gesture to the report, “and SEP. It is expected that this might bring up unpleasant memories. If you need to talk, I am here.”

“I’m fine,” he lies. Badly, if Angela’s expression is anything to go by. At this moment, she chooses not to push. “What else can you tell me?”

.

.

.

He runs until he cannot run any longer.

He stops, and breathes. Steam hisses from the vents along his spine and shoulders. He aches, everywhere, and locks his knees to keep from falling.

It is quiet, save his rasping inhales and the creak of trees in the wind.

_Got a name?_

He palms his chest, feels the metal plates and joints shift with every breath he takes. They are hooked into the skin beneath.

He does not have a name, not like he once did. He has a number. 76. It is enough, for now.

Memories tease. He knows there is something there, lurking in the back of his mind, like a shadow in the pitch black.

_Got a name?_

“Gabriel,” he says, aloud, and thinks _no, that’s not right_. Gabriel was his name. The man made of flesh and bone and sinew has a name that he knows, deep in his gut, and that means something.

But _what_ does it mean?

“Aw,” someone coos, “finally tuckered yourself out, huh?”

In one sharp movement, he is standing tall and braced for what comes. His hands have always missed the weight of something – a gun, a rifle, a _something_ , but they are weapons all of their own.

A shimmer against the trees. Purple flickers and ripples, a sharp smile and bright, intelligent eyes.

“No need for that,” she wags a finger, trails of light following the movement. “If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done it ages ago.”

“You’ve been following me.”

“Si.” She shrugs, indifferent to his low growl of a voice. “I’m a little surprised you didn’t stick with Overwatch, to be honest.”

The glow of his visor touches her silhouette as she approaches, unafraid. She is young. “Who are they?”

A blink, slow and surprised. Realization makes her brows rise. “Oh, they really messed you up, no?”

He draws back, feels his lips curl. The blank spaces in his head are so loud and so empty. Fear clangs in those spaces, as does a deep, violent well of anger.

“Relax, my friend.” Another smile, another glint of teeth. Like a dancer, she treads a light semi-circle around him. Feet barely make a sound over the soft loam. “I did not follow you for two days straight just to do something nefarious.” A pause, a laugh. “To you, anyway.”

Something about her sets his teeth on edge.

Abruptly, she sighs, and softens in the shoulders. “I came to help.”

.

.

.

The girl is called Sombra and she likes the colour purple.

He follows her to an airship, disguised with cloaking technology that his visor makes redundant in a heartbeat.

At a glance, he can see weapons and disassembled equipment scattered everywhere. He steps over a pile of empty magazines.

Youth clings to her cheeks yet. She cannot be more than twenty, yet there are years of hard living scattered around on the ship.

The hollow spaces within him scream. There is something vile and wrong about the world this girl – woman – has come from. He _knows_ this.

There was a war, and he was fighting in it.

“Hungry?” Sombra arches a brow. “Do you even need to eat?”

“Yes,” he says, and catches the bar thrown at him on pure reflex. The packaging says that it is high-calorie field ration. It tastes strange. It is the first food he has willingly ingested in an age. Busy tearing into a ration of her own, Sombra does not see him gag at the memories of feeding tubes clogging his throat. He swallows, and forces himself to keep eating.

_Energy reserves at 61%_ , a scroll of text on his visor reads. It increases to 72% by the time he has finished the bar. Blindly, Sombra kicks a box full of more rations over. He chews through two more bars. 93%.

He still aches, but his stomach no longer does. Readouts tell him that he needs to rest and let his internal systems recalibrate. Much of him is raw from the abrasive, violent touch of electricity. He needs to heal and repair.

Sombra watches him. She is excited, heart beating a rapid staccato, even if her expression remains only mildly curious.

“What,” he grunts, running a systems check now that his mind is not so mindlessly focused on getting away, away from the chains and machines and bodies of his fellows. Data trickles along his mind. He needs to rest and let his organic and cybernetic parts equalise soon. There is no damage that will limit his function, even if the connection nodes on his skin still sing in pain.

“Just wondering how much you remember.” Absently, it seems, she lobs the wrapper into a bin and ambles into the cockpit. For lack of anything else to do, he follows. “I’ve been trying for months to get into The Facility, and now everything is either burnt to a crisp or locked away in Overwatch’s labs. All I was able to save,” she says, flicking a violet eye towards him, “is you.”

He had wondered why his chamber had emptied. The others died in writhing agony, the suspending fluid amplifying the current until even their augmented bodies couldn’t handle it. 61. 12. 84. They had names, and he promises to remember them one day.

“Why?” His throat mauls the word.

She waves a hand, the other flicking through a start-up sequence. He feels the power of the engines comes to life, humming up his legs and settling in around his spine. A powerful set of turbines.

“They had a habit of kidnapping onmics. I wanted to know why.”

He heard their screams. Their pleas. Their cries for mercy. He thinks, maybe, parts of them have been patched into him. Fragments to replace his pupils, energy converters threaded through his arms and chest. Bit and pieces of them that are now a part of him. Their heart, the energies that allowed onmics to live, flow inside of him too.

He looks ahead, silent and sick and full of the urge to rip his own body apart.

He breathes. He waits.

“You have questions.”

“Who doesn’t?” Sombra snorts, curling a hand over the throttle. The airship surges forward, up into the burnt-orange sunset. “I won’t lie; I love knowledge, especially the kind that people try to keep hidden.”

“Like me.”

“Like you,” she concedes, grin cutting and sharp. “Answer my questions, and I’ll help you hide. Sound fair?”

He thinks. He thinks of the bodies he left behind, of the man with dark brown eyes and ran beside him without breaking a sweat, and he says, “No.”

Sombra smirks, as if expecting the answer, and makes a ‘go on’ gesture.

“Help me hunt them down,” he says, low and full of burning, writhing anger, “Help me stop them and I’ll answer any question you ask.”

“I knew there was something I liked about you.” Sombra laughs, rich and delighted, and there is an edge to it that cuts at his heart. Too young for such a laugh to be hers. “Sounds good to me.”

.

.

.

A bitter wind pushes at Gabriel, teasing along his exposed skin, and he savours it – the chill, the sting. Gibraltar tastes of sea-salt and open skies. The night is liquid, dark and cool and glittering with stars. Not quite like the open sky above an Indiana cornfield from so many, _many_ years ago, but close enough.

Gabriel is alone, secreted away on the tiny balcony circling the communications tower, and it is only now, when no other can see, that he lets himself pull the ring out. The metal chain is warm, but the ring is as cold as the wind.

Plain and platinum. No engravings or gemstones or precious metals. Nothing over the top or gaudy, just as Jack had wanted.

Gabriel tilts his hand, letting the moonlight glint off the ring, and sighs.

“Five years today, Sunshine,” he murmurs. “Miss you.”

Jack had picked the ring out, but had never gotten the chance to wear it. Today would have been an anniversary, now it is just a painful reminder. The ring had been delivered the day Gabriel came home from the funeral – from Jack’s funeral, still dressed in his blues and chest covered in medals and ribbons of colour.

He cannot hide forever. Grief is a feeling that never fades, and he has grown used to living despite having a hollow place in his chest. Gabriel tucks the ring and chain away and stands tall.

In his office, Ana is waiting for him with a frighteningly large cup of coffee. She knows the day, what it means, what the empty space between them was once filled by. Her smile is kind, and the lines in the corners of her eyes were made by sadness.

He sits. Ana takes his hand, squeezes once, and he lets her. Releasing him, she digs through his desk for the bourbon he isn’t supposed to have and she isn’t supposed to know about. Three glasses are poured. Gabriel lifts one, Ana the other, and they toast to the third. The bourbon burns, as it usually does when one knocks a two fingers back in one gulp.

Ana sighs, nursing her drink. “I miss him too.”

“Fareeha?”

“Same as always.” A fortifying gulp of amber liquid. “She lets me see less and less of her grief, even though I know it deepens with each year.”

Gabriel does not know what to say, so he says nothing. The silence carries on until Ana’s glass is drained and sunrise begins to crawl through the window. Tempting at it is to drown his liver in alcohol, Gabriel sticks to coffee.

They move on, as they must, and do their duty.

“How’d the mission go?”

“Fine.” Ana flicks hair from her eyes impatiently. “No casualties; a few minor injuries. Jesse is doing well in his new role.”

“Good.” She rolls her eyes, fond, as he breaks into a grin. “You just don’t want to hear me say I told you so.”

“It ages me, to hear those words.”

The banter is good. Grounding. He ignores the streaks of grey hair at her temple, as this war has aged them both prematurely – even if his body does not show it as easily as her own, and leans back in his chair. They dig through reports and sort out the next few missions.

They talk until Gibraltar rouses for the day.

On Gabriel’s desk, a third glass bourbon remains untouched.  

.

.

.

 

 


End file.
